


In Seven Days

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-30
Updated: 2006-09-30
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:38:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley puts his diary [day-planner] to good use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Seven Days

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in 2006.

  
**Monday**

_Survival of the fittest. ONLY the fittest._  


Crowley's Philosophy of Gardening hadn't changed much since the advent of bringing the leafy buggers inside. Admittedly, the talking was a relatively new development, only a couple of decades old, but still. It was cutting-edge, and Crowley was nothing if not that. Also, it fit in perfectly with his Philosophy of Mondays, which was to make life moderately miserable for any and all living creatures in his immediate vicinity.

"As I was saying," continued Crowley, severely, picking up the wilting African violet by the rim of its pot, "you really ought to be ashamed of yourself. Do you have any idea what your neighbors are saying?" He shot the other two violets a significant look.

The offending plant drooped, which was not the wisest response it could've given.

" _Tsk_ ," Crowley said, and reached to scoot the healthy pink violet closer to the indigo one, filling in the space once occupied by the pale purple one in Crowley's other hand. "All that gossiping for naught. Your friend couldn't cut it, so I'm afraid he'll be going—"

It was not, of course, part of Crowley's Philosophy of Mondays to answer interrupting telephone calls, but seeing as it was after noontime, the call was probably important. With a warning look, he set down the violet and dashed to his office. 

It was _never_ too late to ruin Aziraphale's day, especially not if the angel wanted to ask for a favor. They'd been making a lot of trades since the whole Apocalypse botch-up, partly to look busy and partly to stave off sheer existential boredom. Crowley liked to make sure Aziraphale owed him at least one favor at all times; it meant frequent contact.

" _Mm_?" Crowley asked the receiver.

"I should hope you haven't answered with your mouth full," Aziraphale said disapprovingly. "That's low even for you, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Not at all," Crowley replied, fiddling with the nearest pen on his desk. "It's proof that I've finally got something to rub off on you."

"Very funny," said the angel, sounding vaguely irritated. "In any case, it's just as well. I was wondering if you might want to come over for tea."

"Tea?" Crowley echoed, sticking the pen back in the canister with the rest. "Why not lunch? Haven't you been dying for an excuse to try out that new Thai cookbook?"

"Well," said Aziraphale, hesitantly, "if you don't _mind_ terribly—"

"Of course not," replied Crowley, already standing up. "I'll be right there."

Before Aziraphale could respond, Crowley hung up and headed back to the plants. The pale, trembling violet was cowering on the floor just where he'd left it. He picked it up and eyed it disapprovingly, then tucked it under his arm on his way to the door.

"Let's go find out," he called over his shoulder, "if your friend is allergic to curry."

  
**Tuesday**

_Correspondence—catch up, inbox suffering._  


Crowley's Philosophy of Tuesdays, insofar as he had one, was that, being the day after Monday, Tuesday was clearly the best time to take a break and catch up on the odd jobs that wouldn't have a chance in Hell of getting finished otherwise. He didn't like responding to letters or postcards, and the fact that he got them on a regular basis rather mystified him. And, as unglamorous as it was, he had bills to pay.

Sadly, the bills weren't half as interesting as the postcards.

Hastur had forgot about the incident involving the Holy Water—and so had Ligur, seeing as he'd appeared again out of nowhere. Crowley turned the suspiciously stained piece of cardstock over in his hand and read the back. They were on holiday somewhere, though _exactly_ where was unclear, because the ink had been badly smudged. Hastur said he hoped that Crowley was having a miserable time of it.

Yawning, Crowley dropped the card in the bin, where it went up in smoke.

The second piece of mail was not so much a letter as a brief missive from the old lady downstairs, who seemed to have come back from oblivion as well. She simply wanted to thank him for leaving her that lovely miniature palm tree last week, and would he care for a nice hot meal next time he had an evening to spare?

Crowley fished a piece of dusty stationery out of his drawer and responded, saying that, while her offer was kind, he wouldn't dream of imposing upon her, and had she considered asking those fascinating young blokes in the flat across the street? 

After that, the bills were almost a relief. Crowley stacked his newly prepared outgoing mail on the corner of his desk, making a mental note to take it out the next time he left the flat, then noticed another postcard that had somehow ended up mixed in with the junk mail. It was an ordinary London postcard, one of the lake in St. James's Park.

_My dear,_

_I thought you might be suffering for a bit of civilized correspondence. I came by this the other day and thought of you. I daresay our feathered friends are missing your particular vintage of mold. It's been a week, hasn't it? I've got some new wine to try._

_Do give me a call & etc._

_Yours,  
Aziraphale_

Crowley tossed the card in the bin, tapped his fingers on the desk, and then fished it out and propped it up against the tin of pens. He reached for the phone, reasoning that Aziraphale would only resort to this if it was a very fine wine indeed.

  
**Wednesday**

_Off._  


In Crowley's book, Wednesdays existed solely for the purpose of catching up on sleep that one had lost on Monday and Tuesday nights. While he rarely missed the chance to doze, Crowley had been generally more tired than usual, which he ascribed to the fact that saving the world bloody well took a lot out of you.

Still, he couldn't sleep.

By ten, it was clear that the light doze he'd achieved from about 2:00 AM until 5:00 AM had been a complete fluke and that the paint on his ceiling would probably begin to peel if he stared at it for much longer. Reluctantly, he got out of bed and wandered out to the lounge. Perhaps he'd be more productive if he curled up on the sofa.

It was, unfortunately, already occupied.

"I thought I told you to go home," Crowley muttered, yawning. He extended his foot and nudged the unconscious angel's ankle. "Aziraphale—"

"What? _Oh_ ," said Aziraphale, waking with a start. He sat bolt upright, staring around Crowley's brightly lit room, and then squinted up at Crowley. "Good heavens, did I…"

"Pass out after finishing off that exemplary Sauvignon Blanc, I should think," Crowley said, helping himself to the space beside Aziraphale. "Now, budge over. It's my turn."

"You got the bed," Aziraphale said, distinctly offended, looking Crowley up and down as if a modest, two-piece silk pajama set was something to be frowned upon.

"That's not the point," Crowley said, for once clear-headed enough to _make_ his point. "The point is, you're on my sofa, and it's my day to sleep there."

Aziraphale blinked at him, confused, then stood up, smoothing his rumpled clothes with a sigh. "I suppose you won't be wanting breakfast, then," he said, and started in the general direction of the door. He was weaving a bit.

Crowley rolled his eyes and caught the angel's wrist.

"Oh, all right," Crowley muttered, tugging Aziraphale back to the sofa. "Sit down."

"I knew you had a conscience," Aziraphale said, smiling hazily, as if the alcohol hadn't really cleared after all. He'd brought more than one bottle, but Crowley couldn't remember how many, and he didn't feel like counting the tally on the floor. He snapped his fingers, and the clutter vanished. Aziraphale looked pleased.

"If you want any coffee, you'd better wipe that smile off your face," Crowley informed him, and started for the kitchen. "And you'd better give me my sofa," he added, tapping his arm impatiently while the coffee brewed. He filled two mugs and carried them back to the living room. "I don't care if you take the spare room, just—"

Aziraphale was snoring softly, his head thrown back against the plush white leather.

Crowley sat down beside him and helped himself to the contents of both mugs.

  
**Thursday**

_~~Spring~~ ~~Autumn~~ Cleaning_  


Generally speaking, Crowley never cleaned his flat, because it never got cluttered enough to warrant the act unless you counted bottles on the floor. He'd already taken care of his desk, and he had the sneaking suspicion that there might be cobwebs in the corners of his closet. There were, so he dispatched them all with a frown.

When the phone rang, he didn't think twice about answering. 

Cleaning was _always_ negotiable.

"I hope," Crowley panted ten minutes later, letting the bookshop door slam behind him, "that this is, in fact, a genuine emergency. I was busy."

Aziraphale tilted his reading spectacles, setting down his newspaper.

"Not busy enough to refuse, apparently."

"If you'd told me what it is you want, maybe I would have," Crowley retorted, striding back to Aziraphale's desk and perching himself on the edge. "You made it sound as if you needed _help_ with something. Do you think I'd pass up the chance to see that?"

"No," said Aziraphale, smiling pleasantly. "Tea?"

"Fine," Crowley said, following him to the kitchenette. "We'll have your intrigue first."

"Well," Aziraphale said some minutes later, blowing the steam off his cup. "It's not really an _intrigue_ , per se, it's just…routine."

Crowley raised his eyebrows over a sip of tea.

"Cleaning. I'm afraid the dust has got ideas of its own. Just when I think I've cleared the last of it, there's more in places that I was quite sure I had checked."

"See, that's the problem with things like dust, and plants," Crowley added philosophically, helping himself to some more tea. "If they're inanimate, then I'm your aunt. You've got to let them know who's boss."

Aziraphale smiled faintly, setting down his cup.

"Why do you think I asked you here?"

 _Because you're a prat_ , Crowley thought, but he kept it to himself as they trooped up the stairs. Dust wasn't as difficult as plants, so the job would be quick. Maybe they'd have time for another bottle of that wine, assuming they hadn't consumed it all.

  
**Friday**

_Laundry_  


Crowley sat up gingerly, groaning. Aziraphale's sofa was ancient, battered, and entirely unfit for sleeping on, yet one glance at the broken cuckoo clock on the wall was sufficient to tell him that he'd somehow managed to get a full night's rest.

"Never drinking that wine again," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"Quite a shame, too," Aziraphale said, entirely too cheerful, puttering in with a tray of something. He sat down beside Crowley and propped it between them. "I've rarely had one nowadays with such an agreeable flavor. Coffee?"

"No," Crowley sighed, feeling vaguely queasy, and took one of the crumpets. It was then he noticed that Aziraphale had quite a significant stain down the front of his shirt. "You've, er, got…stuff," he said around a mouthful of crumpet, gesturing vaguely.

Aziraphale frowned at him, then frowned down at his shirt. "Oh dear," he murmured, brushing at the coffee-streak with worried fingers. "I rather liked this one."

Crowley swallowed, snapping his fingers, then took another bite.

Aziraphale made an indignant noise.

"That's very kind of you," he said irritably, "but it doesn't _help_."

"No?" Crowley asked, reaching for the butter knife propped in the jam jar. He spread a streak of strawberry down his own front, then snapped his fingers again. "I don't understand you," he said, and put the knife to good use on another scone.

"The mirror goes both ways, I can assure you," said Aziraphale, somewhat sulkily.

"Not really," Crowley said, materializing himself some orange juice. "That's one trick you never got the hang of."

"Why must you be so nasty?"

"If you'd had two dozen springs in your back all night, you would be, too."

Aziraphale gave him a weary look.

"What makes you think I didn't?"

"There are alternatives to not sleeping," Crowley informed him. "You could replace the bloody mattress and have done with it."

"Nonsense. I don't use it enough to justify the expense."

"Then I'll start sleeping over, how's that?"

Aziraphale collected the tray up quickly, splashing Crowley with coffee, and left.

  
**Saturday**

_Catch up on odds and ends. More odds than ends._  


Crowley's Philosophy of Saturdays was that they existed solely because humans had needed to come up with an excuse for sleeping in on Sundays. He'd never understood why seven days were necessary; six was a perfectly good number. He'd asked Aziraphale once, and that had been a bad move, because Aziraphale had gone on about Creation for two hours straight, and he'd nearly fallen asleep in his dinner.

Crowley was paced around his flat, trying to figure out what he hadn't done. The cleaning, surely, could be put off till next week, and he hadn't bothered to soak his shirt the day before when he'd returned from the bookshop. Aziraphale had ignored him completely until he left, and leaving was definitely preferable to being ignored.

The whole affair was completely, ineffably stupid, and the angel would agree.

Since there wasn't anything to be done, the only logical course of action was to make things to do. There was the matter of his compact disc collection, for one, which hadn't been rearranged in at least a few months. Crowley usually preferred to keep them alphabetical by artist, but he was feeling contrary enough to consider switching to alphabetical by album. By the time he hit Q, he was thoroughly bored.

Crowley supposed that he could take a cue from Aziraphale and comb the place over for wayward dust, but he reminded himself, stubbornly, that he wasn't that obsessive-compulsive. He gave the plants a once-over, frowning sternly at each in turn. 

They were sickeningly verdant.

There was also the television, but Crowley had recently gotten into the habit of turning it on only when he had Aziraphale over. He had discovered that it was far more fun to watch ridiculous programs if one had an audience for one's sarcastically witty comments. Crowley flipped through half a dozen channels, lost his patience, and waved his copy of _Gone With the Wind_ into the VCR. They didn't make comedies the way they used to, and he could use a dose of humor.

About an hour and a half in, the doorbell woke him up.

"'M coming," Crowley grumbled. He didn't bother to put the film on pause.

"I, um," said Aziraphale, standing on Crowley's doorstep and looking rather sheepish, "thought you might like to go for a stroll in the park. It's quite a nice evening."

Crowley eyed the crumpled brown bag that Aziraphale was clutching to his chest.

"You're looking a bit pale," Aziraphale continued. "Fresh air will do you some good."

"I'll get my coat," said Crowley, and dashed back up the stairs.

  
**Sunday**

_Scheduling, plotting, etc._  


Crowley yawned and rolled over, burrowing into a tangle of warm blankets and warmer feathers. Perhaps there was something to that Creation business after all. Without a seventh day in there, everybody would burn out and go into Monday a lot crankier than was necessary, and Crowley wouldn't have his work cut out for him.

He sighed contently.

"I _thought_ you were awake," murmured Aziraphale, muffled somewhere in Crowley's pillows. His tone was mildly accusing, but he sounded marvelously sleepy.

Crowley buried his nose somewhere between Aziraphale's wings and the nape of his neck, closing his eyes again. So much for not ruining the moment, if it was even a moment they'd been having in the first place.

"Keep talking," he said, "and I won't be for much longer."

Aziraphale tugged at Crowley's arm, which was wrapped around his waist.

"I had rather hoped you'd be a gentleman about this."

"About what?" asked Crowley, pressing his lips to the spot he'd been nuzzling. "Getting dead drunk for a third night running and letting you carry me to bed? Worked out pretty well, wouldn't you say, this twisted little seduction plot of yours?"

"I meant this _morning_ ," sighed Aziraphale, though he had stopped struggling, which was encouraging. "I had hoped you'd…" He trailed off, stroking Crowley's wrist.

"One piece of sarcasm and I'm in the doghouse, eh?"

"I beg your— _what_?"

"Never mind," Crowley said, and nosed back into Aziraphale's feathers, which were soft and ticklish. They trembled when he ran his fingers along Aziraphale's hipbone and down to his belly, which was also soft and had tasted of bath salts and sweat.

" _Mm_ ," Aziraphale sighed, skimming his fingers across the back of Crowley's hand.

"I'd prefer it," Crowley confessed, "if _your_ mouth was full."


End file.
